


Ides of March, The -- Onlist Challenge

by HASA_Archivist



Category: The Lord of the Rings - J. R. R. Tolkien
Genre: Other - Freeform, War of the Ring
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2015-04-14
Updated: 2004-03-15
Packaged: 2018-03-22 21:32:41
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 10
Words: 7,400
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/3744307
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/HASA_Archivist/pseuds/HASA_Archivist
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>In honour of the Battle of the Pelennor, members of HA wrote and posted vignettes about the events of March 15, 3019 TA. The only catch was stories had to be from the POV or focus on the experience of one of the less common characters -- anyone except a member of the Fellowship, Denethor, Faramir, Theoden, Eomer, and Eowyn. All stories were written over the course of two days.</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. Introductory Notes

**Author's Note:**

> Note from the HASA Transition Team: This story was originally archived at [HASA](http://fanlore.org/wiki/Henneth_Ann%C3%BBn_Story_Archive), which closed in February 2015. To preserve the archive, we began manually importing its works to the AO3 as an Open Doors-approved project in February 2015. We posted announcements about the move, but may not have reached everyone. If you are (or know) this author, please contact The HASA Transition Team using the e-mail address on the [HASA collection profile](http://archiveofourown.org/collections/hasa/profile).

On the morning of March 15 I made the following post to the Henneth_Annun listserv:

> March 15 is certainly an important day in Middle-earth history. The entry from the Tale of Years for March 15, 3019 reads:
> 
> _"In the early hours the Witch-king breaks the Gates of the City. Denethor burns himself on a pyre. The horn of the Rohirrim are heard at cockcrow. Battle of the Pelennor. Theoden is slain. Aragorn raises the standard of Arwen. Frodo and Samwise escape [from Cirith Ungol] and begin their journey north along the Morgai. Battle under the trees in Mirkwood. Thranduil repels the forces of Dol Guldur. Second assault on Lothlorien."_
> 
> So pick any one of these events, or any other that happened on March  
> 15, and write a story about it. The only catch is, your story cannot  
> be told from the POV of any of the following characters:
> 
> Any member of the Fellowship, Denethor, Faramir, Theoden, Eomer, Eowyn
> 
> The idea is to look at these well-known events through the eyes of  
> someone other than the main characters. Some possible point-of-views to consider:
> 
> ==> The Witch King's reaction to Eowyn's revelation that she is not a  
> man
> 
> ==> The reaction of one of Denethor's (loyal) guards to Gandalf's  
> arrival, or to Denethor's final death
> 
> ==> Guthlaf's thoughts as Theoden takes his horn
> 
> ==> The reaction of any Gondorian to the sight of Aragorn's banner
> 
> And don't forget the Elves. They were also battling on this day, and  
> stories about them are certainly fair play.
> 
> A thousand words or less. And even though our heroes only had one day to do all of this, you have two. All stories should be posted by  
> midnight tomorrow, your local time. 

And the list members responded with a vengeance. In just under two days nine stories were written, covering a wide range of story ideas. You will find in the following chapters their submissions -- one vignette per chapter. Stories are listed in the order they were posted to HA.

Cheers,  
Marta  
(HASA Challenges Manager)


	2. Before the Doors of the Houses of Healing -- Tanaqui

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> In honour of the Battle of the Pelennor, members of HA wrote and posted vignettes about the events of March 15, 3019 TA. The only catch was stories had to be from the POV or focus on the experience of one of the less common characters -- anyone except a member of the Fellowship, Denethor, Faramir, Theoden, Eomer, and Eowyn. All stories were written over the course of two days.

"Why did you not tell me?" My fury burned coldly in every word. I had barely held my anger at the wizard in check since I discovered the whole nature of his 'errand' and that he had known what might be passing in the hallows when he met me as I went down to the battle. "What right did you have to keep it from me."

"Could you have done more than I did?" he answered in that calm and irritating manner he had when he was convinced he was right.

"And what did you do?" I said, not at all placated. "It was Beregond who held the doors against those fools of servants. And if I had been there, they might have listened to my commands where they did not listen to yours. And the Steward might not be dead."

"He would have listened to you no more than me." Mithrandir answered, very sure of himself.

"I say he would," I returned. "For he did not think that I was seeking to supplant him with a usurper."

The wizard's eyes flashed at that. "Do you deny your king?" he asked

"No," I was not daunted by his look. The Lord Aragorn knew he had my fealty. I remembered him well enough from when I was a youth to know now why the Lord Ecthelion had loved him and why he had always been placed first in men's hearts, even above such a man as Denethor. "You know I hold him to be my liege-lord, whether he claim it or no. I did not speak of what I thought, only of what the Lord Steward had in his mind."

I took a deep breath to try and calm myself. "And that does not excuse you from your failure to tell me that the Lord to whom I had sworn my service was near to death and that my nephew--" Here I paused, almost too overcome by knowledge of what had so nearly come to pass to continue. After a moment, I mastered myself and continued, "that my nephew was to be robbed of his life by no weapon of the enemy but by his own father. I ask again: by what right did you withhold that news?"

"By the right to save you from yourself," the wizard answered quietly. "What would you have done, my Lord Imrahil, if you had known my errand. Your duty lay on the fields of the Pelennor - as did the Lord Denethor's. Grief and madness had overthrown his reason. Would you have had your love for your nephew overthrow yours, and rob Gondor of the only leader all would follow? I could save Faramir. You could perhaps have saved Denethor, although to what end I do not know. The enemy had wounded him more deeply even than his son and I do not think you could have reached him. But I know that none save you could have led your people in such an hour."

"In this he has some right, my Lord Prince," Éomer said, laying his hand on my arm. "There were too many rash deeds this day."

I remembered then that his sister also lay near to death within the houses and it sobered me. I pondered the wizard's words. If I had known what passed in the hallows, what choice would I have made? Mithrandir was right, I saw, that I was needed on the field. Yet could I have abandoned my nephew to his fate for the sake of the fate of Gondor? And would that make me more or less of a fool than a man who saw only too late how much he loved his son?

What was done could not be undone. At least my nephew lived, for now.

"So victory is shorn of gladness, and it is bitter bought," I said at last.


	3. Hope Rekindled -- Marta

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> In honour of the Battle of the Pelennor, members of HA wrote and posted vignettes about the events of March 15, 3019 TA. The only catch was stories had to be from the POV or focus on the experience of one of the less common characters -- anyone except a member of the Fellowship, Denethor, Faramir, Theoden, Eomer, and Eowyn. All stories were written over the course of two days.

"Imrahil!" I heard someone cry against the battle-din beyond the gates. I searched the empty street for a familiar face, with no success. You could hardly see anything through this wretched cloud. I pressed my heel into my horse and resumed my ride toward bloody Pelennor. Even the wind was against us, it seemed.

"My lord, are you there?" This time I recognised that high-pitched, merry voice; I had only heard him speak a few words at the lord's council the previous day, but the timbre was rare enough that I remembered it.

"Peregrin?" I asked, peering through the mist.

Suddenly I heard the sound of horses' hooves beating against the stone road, faster than any I had ever seen. The beast broke through the haze, his coat a richer silver than the mithril of the Tower Guards' helms, and his eyes blazed with fury. When the horses were that scared, the wise man took notice.

Yet this noble beast was not the only one frightened. The halfling's eyes were as wide as I had ever seen them. And Gandalf himself -- he held his small companion tightly to his chest with one arm and looked around wildly, his breathing ragged. This was one who had braved Dol Guldur? Aye, and he was wise beyond my reckoning. Even without his steed's panic, I should have guessed all was not well.

"Whither now, Mithrandir?" I asked, my puzzlement showing in my grey eyes. "The Rohirrim are calling us; I can smell the blood they have spilt, but even Eorl's noble sons cannot last forever without aid. Would you then abandon them?"

"They will need every man you can muster," Gandalf replied, his voice harsh.

"But what of you? Would you desert the White City?"

"I am called elsewhere," the wizard said. "I will be needed here before the end, but I am needed more elsewhere."

"Our enemies lie beyond the gates --" I began.

"I fear there is an enemy within," he said. "Imrahil, we have no time. The City's defences must hold." He pulled young Peregrin more closely to him, cried "Noro lim, Shadowfax!" And they were gone, careening up the streets with a speed I had never before seen.

An enemy in the Citadel; that would prove ill indeed. We could scarce stand against the enemies that pressed against the City's walls. But I would trust in Mithrandir. "Wizard's pupil," my brother-in-law often called his son, and he did not mean it as a complement, but today I was glad that my nephew's tutor was rushing to their aid. It would avail us little to survive the current onslaught but die in the Dark Lands because our City fell.

So we rode out. I nearly gagged at the smell. Black blood flowed across the field, seeping deep into the soil. I knew no plants would grow there again until it was cleansed.

I called to the men behind me, and my heart broke once more at the sight of them. I had not thought that possible.

Tradesmen and stableboys, the last defence of the city, stood before me, their faces ashen and their shoulders quavering. I laid my hand to the hilt of my sword and drew it out in a last defiant gesture, trying not to betray my own fear.

I had memorised many great speeches by kings and stewards as a boy, and I remembered them to that day. Somehow, though, they all seemed hollow. "Gondor shall not fall, if we do not fail her," I said, the words sailing past my lips like so many clanging swords, and I saw that they were as empty on my men's ears as they had seemed in my heart.

Yet, where words fail, example must suffice. My sons led their men forward to what I knew would be bitter if glorious ends. I led my own company toward the Southrons not a hundred yards away.

To this day I do not know how many fell by my sword. We men of Dol Amroth do not number our kills nor delight in our enemies' death. Five maybe, or ten, felt my blade's bite, before the Haradrim turned and ran from us.

A shriek like none I had ever heard penetrated me to the heart, driving away all thought of pursuit. A chill ran down my spine, and my horse nearly reared in fright. I mastered him but could not rule my own terror. My very soul seemed frozen, and I could not move.

"Nazgûl!" I heard someone call, both near and far away, and I resisted the urge to bury my face in my horse's neck. Forcing my head up, I turned to face the men behind me. "Form the lines!"

As they gathered behind me the terrible cry passed away. My heart dared to hope, and I guessed from the expressions on my men's tired faces that I was not the only one who felt refreshed. A wind rose in the south, blowing away the last of that scream -- and with it, some of the clouds. The sun shone down on my face, and I looked for new foes.

I did not have to look far. Orcs charged across the field, and I fell back to the gates. There we fought off any who dared approach.

And then I saw them: tall Riders of the Mark. Their hair, flaxen-pale, flowed under their light helms. They walked nobly through the mayhem, and none dared to hinder them.

I dismounted and made my way over as quickly as I could. So Théoden had fallen. That was evil news, but not entirely unexpected. Yet who was this maiden?

Her golden hair fell around her pale face, and her sword arm lay crumpled against her chest. For such innocence to suffer so seemed more grievous than anything I had seen so far. I kissed my hand gently and lowered it to her lips.

Then I pulled back. Her faint breath ruffled through my fingers, and her chest rose and fell. So slight was the motion that I might have missed it, but it was undeniable: the maiden of Rohan lived.

As did my hope.


	4. Fire -- Lanthiriel

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> In honour of the Battle of the Pelennor, members of HA wrote and posted vignettes about the events of March 15, 3019 TA. The only catch was stories had to be from the POV or focus on the experience of one of the less common characters -- anyone except a member of the Fellowship, Denethor, Faramir, Theoden, Eomer, and Eowyn. All stories were written over the course of two days.

Fire. The consumer of all things, the equalizer of all it bends its forked tongue around. Forests wide and ancient, great lords, city walls long since erected all alike come to ash and blackened ruins beneath its swift storm. He held it aloft and watched as it reached out from the torch and devoured the very air of the dark chamber, turning what was once pure into a putrid smoke.

It was this untamable beast that the Steward would have embrace him. He laid himself beside his noble son on the oil-soaked pyre and waited for his guardsmen to put the flame to work. Fur-trimmed robe and rich jewels, flesh and sword and eyes once lit with wisdom would crumble soon together until what was left was indistinguishable as separate entities. Man and tinder, blade and bone – all vanquished, left to scatter on the winds. Nothing would remain of the ruler who had once commanded armies, governed sternly from his tower, fathered sons. Nothing would be left of the strong young Ranger who had often smiled with mercy on the forsaken, comforted the weak and helpless with his bravery and gentle judgment. Nothing would endure – not even the empty shell of a liberated spirit like the others in that long street of rest, tongue-less, left to darkness, but still present in some small way as the march of time transformed them slowly into dust.

That was the power of fire, to end utterly; even memory was victim to its wrath. And yet, was it not true that fire too could cleanse and hasten the growth that would spring from charred soil with a new dawn awakening? But that is why he faltered, the young guard who drew his torch away and stood, hesitating, though the Steward commanded his men to set the pyre ablaze. In that deep and silent street even the sound of the battle was but a rumor to the ear, yet the dread of it made each heartbeat painful in his chest. For if the Steward himself had abandoned hope and life alike, who could be so foolish as to count upon the morning? It would not come, and the guard realized – as if it had never occurred to him before – that the never-ending night would not fall on the White City alone, but on all lands and upon all peoples. The entire world was burning. And if some chance brought about another dawn and fragile shoots of new growth did push their way above the ash that covered them, who would be left to tend to them, to harvest them, to pick and trim them for the window of a lady’s chamber, to breathe in their fragrance sweet? None but ghosts. And each shoot, each flower, each blade of grass would wither anew in the poisoned winter of the earth just as each young maid, each child, each soldier grey-bearded with age had been cut down wantonly before the triumphant Darkness.

“Obey me!” the Steward barked and the young guardsman was wrested from his waking nightmare. No longer could he stay his hand and deny his ruler’s wish. All was dark and cold in the Silent Street; they were already forgotten. The pyre would warm the marble crypts and shed its light through every archway; each death mask would gleam with the same red shimmer that danced wildly in the Steward’s living eyes. The last light, the last heat would burn there in the Silent Street, as without an utter darkness would extinguish stars and moon and sun. When, the young guardsman wondered, had the Everlasting Fire abandoned them, deciding to let them perish below in blindness and bitter cold? He gazed at the other guardsmen, slowly tilting their torches towards the wood of the pyre; he saw with sorrow the unconscious form of the Ranger and the expression of determined resignation on his father’s face; he glimpsed, in his mind, the walls of Minas Tirith shattering and the white paving stones stained with blood. He lowered his torch to do his master’s will.

There was light, though no flame had yet kindled in the pyre, and suddenly life had stirred within the Street. Issuing from the chamber the guardsmen found themselves at the sword point of Beregond, their comrade, and several fell as loyalties were contested with deftly wielded weapons. “Stay this madness!” a voice cried, stronger and more commanding than the Steward’s, and in a moment Mithrandir the wizard stood upon the steps, his white staff held aloft in his left hand, a bright sword in his right. The Steward had raised himself from the pyre, enraged at the intrusion, and he called to the guardsmen demanding vengeance. But they had lowered their weapons, confused and bedazzled by the coming of the wizard, and the young guardsman stood alone to the side of the crypt, motionless save for the arm that fell limply to his side. Loosed from his grip the torch plummeted to the stone floor and against that smooth surface, cold with long ages of death, the fire was smothered to naught.

Another flame was thus extinguished, but the light in the Silent Street grew brighter. The young guardsman saw it shining from Mithrandir’s face and about his form and white staff, a light immediate and palpable but falling as if from a great distance or through a vast space of time. A white fire, not the red and black tongues of destruction, but a flame of renewal, of guidance through the perils of the night and the fiercest of storm-stirred seas to safe, verdant shores.

They had not been forsaken, the young guardsman realized. Passing through one darkness or another, they would still reach springtime and dawn.


	5. Wind and Fire -- Adi

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> In honour of the Battle of the Pelennor, members of HA wrote and posted vignettes about the events of March 15, 3019 TA. The only catch was stories had to be from the POV or focus on the experience of one of the less common characters -- anyone except a member of the Fellowship, Denethor, Faramir, Theoden, Eomer, and Eowyn. All stories were written over the course of two days.

I do not like the city. The paved and cobbled pathways are hard under feet used to grass, and the steep and winding streets would threaten the balance of one less proud and noble. And the smell – even in peace time the smell of this place is enough to make me afraid. This place smells of Man and stone, and great walls keep the wind from driving the scents away. With those great walls, the city tries to keep out wind and rain, but of course it doesn't succeed. All it can do is shut itself in.

What is so terrible about wind and rain anyway? This I do not understand. Wind would drive away the evil smells. Rain might put the fires out.

Fire fills me with fear, but I am proud and do not shy away. I am here for the love of my lord and master, and he does not shy, so why would I? We have a task to do, him and me, and though I do not know what it is, I can tell its importance from the urgency of his voice, the tenseness of his muscles.

We must have a task to do, or else why would we clatter up the streets of the burning city, when outside the gates my brothers scream their fear and rage in battle? I can hear them even from here, and though I do not wish for battle, I would fain join them. We do not love battle, my brothers and I, not as Men seem to, but we understand what is needed of us. Out there would be pain and fear and confusion, but perhaps there would also be a chance for speed and movement. Certainly there would be grass under foot.

I miss the feel of wind. I miss light. I miss open spaces, and freedom to run as I choose.

But I follow the will of my lord and master, chosen in respect and love. Even my freedom is not my own, and when he calls, I must come. What he bids, I must do. This is the way of things. I do not shy away.

Once, my line served only the Kings of Rohan, for they are fine Men, great-hearted and noble, even as we are. But we have always been free to choose a master as we wished, and when my time came for choice, I would take for my own no other than this one. For I saw with the wisdom of my sires that the time had come for a greater King, and my pride bade me serve him if I could. And so though he is no King, I chose to ride with this one. He smells of Man and Elf both, and of grass and wind and rain, and more than anything else of fire, and yet I do not shy away.

In a place that smells of fire and death, he pulls me up short, and leaps down from my back. So too does the little one I had not even noticed I was bearing. To me, this child-like creature means all but nothing, and I am sure that to him, I mean just as little – and yet I know that to the one who rides me, in our different ways, we both mean the world.

Sometimes many things are important. Wind and fire both.

He rushes into the place of death, and I do not fear for him. My part in his task is done for now, and I am content.

And what does any of this matter, my brothers sometimes ask. Will it make the grass grow any greener, or the foals any faster, or the wind any sweeter, or the fire any brighter? Against my fear, I have sped through the burning city at my master's command. And the wisdom of my sires tells me that it does matter. Now it is dark, and the city burns; the grass is stained with blood, and the wind scented with death. My lord and master would right these wrongs. This I know. I am doing this for the feel of the wind, for the light, for the open spaces, and for the freedom to run as I choose.


	6. Vision, The -- fmlyhntr

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> In honour of the Battle of the Pelennor, members of HA wrote and posted vignettes about the events of March 15, 3019 TA. The only catch was stories had to be from the POV or focus on the experience of one of the less common characters -- anyone except a member of the Fellowship, Denethor, Faramir, Theoden, Eomer, and Eowyn. All stories were written over the course of two days.

The Seer bowed deeply as he entered the throne room. He'd not wanted to obey the summons that brought him to the palace. His own life was in jeopardy, he knew that--but so was the King's. The vision nearly knocked him to the ground.

He was a mighty King, but his heart longed for more. He craved power.

The King stared at him, before speaking, in a low deep voice. "I wish a seeing--and have been told you are the best. What do you see?"

The Seer took a deep breath. "Your majesty, seeing cannot be summoned on command. It is a faithless gift." Anything but to tell what he'd seen.

The King drew his sword. "I saw the look in your eye. I am old, I want to know the nature of my death."

The Seer closed his eyes. "Beware of March," he whispered. "Your doom will come in March."

"Is that all you see?" The sword came closer to the Seer's throat.

He gasped at the feel of the point. "No man can kill you."

The King pulled the sword away, the Seer braved a quick glance up. There was a small, nasty, smile on the King's face.

At the same moment, the doors to the throne room were thrown open, and a courtier ran in. "Your majesty, a messenger from the Lord Sauron."

The King sheathed his sword. "Excellent. Have him enter."

The Seer slipped toward the wall, hoping to escape while the King was distracted. The fair messenger knelt before the King and extended a small box. The King took it.

The Seer was almost to the door. Once there, it would be easy to escape.

The King opened the box as the Seer reached the door. "NOOOO." The Seer clasped a hand over his mouth--everyone was looking at him.

The King fingered the Ring in the box, placed it on his finger. "A gift from my Lord Sauron. You do not approve?" Again the King's sword was out.

The Seer knelt, words failing him. All he could see and think was the future of this man. "Don't take the Ring. Send it back." Even as he spoke, he saw three things: a wraith--which he recognized as the King; a woman; and his own death. He would speak, make one last attempt to prevent the future he saw. "Your majesty--that Ring will destroy you..."

The last thing he saw was the King's sword raised above his head.  



	7. Envinyatar -- Starlight

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> In honour of the Battle of the Pelennor, members of HA wrote and posted vignettes about the events of March 15, 3019 TA. The only catch was stories had to be from the POV or focus on the experience of one of the less common characters -- anyone except a member of the Fellowship, Denethor, Faramir, Theoden, Eomer, and Eowyn. All stories were written over the course of two days.

`Do you feel it, Aglahad? Do you feel the change in the wind?' Halaran leaned against the railings and breathed deep. `It's like they said: It has a different scent to it- not foul anymore.'

The older man walked to him, more uneasy in spite of his age and experience. This was his first sea-voyage.

`I can feel it, lad.' He put his hand on Halaran's shoulder, more to steady himself than to reassure the young man.

`Lean forward. It feels as though we are flying,' Halaran said. `The thought of riding the waves under black sails was not very encouraging, but now I feel like one of those seabirds the stories tell of.'

`What would I give to become as one of them now,' came a new voice, and both men turned round. It was Aldarion, whom they had not seen since the early morning when the wind changed and more hands were needed to keep the sails steady. `We need all the speed we can get. Aragorn said Minas Tirith is burning.'

`Aye, and it saddens me somewhat,' Halaran said, `that we will finally go to the home of our sundered kin, only to find flame and blood, and not the majesty of the ancient kingdom.'

`And yet for such an hour we were appointed to come, and our pledge we will fulfill. We should be getting close to it now; we have sailed faster since the new wind came. We will get there when we get there, and you need not worry about things you cannot fix.'

`But I must worry, Aglahad! For this moment we have toiled, and bled, and trained. For this moment have we forsaken so much,' Aldarion's tone melted into a sadness they had seldom heard in it, but his countenance had softened and his eyes, though briefly became distant, acquired a deep expression of tenderness. `It is the hope of this dream that has kept me sane through all I have seen in my life. I am a Ranger, and nothing makes me happier than to know I am in the service of my people, but sometimes I wish they did not have to suffer so, yet I realize that darkness must come before the sun shines again. It is our Chieftain's moment, our people's moment, and I only wish I could do more to help. I feel tied up in this ship!'

`Your strength has helped him, and mayhap for that alone we are come.' Aglahad glanced at Aragorn's ship, and a bright light kindled his eyes. `What could a small force of thirty do, in the midst of such havoc and destruction? What could our little company achieve, only rangers, men of the wild, when faced with the savage armies of Mordor? We have felt their onslaught before, we know how fierce they can be, and we know that thirty men is too small a force to stop them. But,' he looked up, and the weight of many years seemed to be lifted from him, `we are come, nonetheless, bringing hope when the hour was dark, and faith in a better future. We have forsaken so much because we desire so much. And our lord Aragorn needed to be reminded of the promises that can be his if he becomes what we all hope he'll be.'

`And he will,' Aldarion said.

`And we will,' the old man said, gripping Aldarion's shoulder with his free hand. `We have trodden paths that no mortal man has trodden for many years, and have conquered. We have seen, and have been part of the fulfillment of the prophecies of old, when `the hour was come for the oathbreakers.' The One would not have sped us so far without a special purpose for us. So, my friends, do not worry because you cannot do anything now- you know nothing of sea-craft! I'd be worried if you attempted any more than you have. But, there will be plenty of time to worry once we reach the White City.' Aglahad smiled, gently, `And I will have you worry, then, for I do not want you dead so soon after you have seen what we have so long hoped for.'

`Our people united,' Halaran said.

`Our hope restored,' Aglahad said.

`Our light renewed,' Aldarion said, and when he looked north, he saw a great, black shadow being lifted to the top of Aragorn's ship. A gleam of sun caught its furls and it shone like bright Earendil in the night, revealing seven stars and a White Tree, the device of their sires of old whom no one had borne for many lives of men. And at that hour Aldarion ran to the prow of his ship, being filled by a strange, delightful happiness, followed by Halaran and Aglahad, and they laughed seeing that their restorer had, at last, come.

`I little dreamed that I would see Isildur's symbol in my time,' Aglahad whispered, and his eyes became filled.

`I never knew it could be so beautiful,' Halaran said, his head moving in time with the waving of the standard.

`Now we are free,' Aldarion said, very softly, and drew his hand to his heart, `to show who we are. The hope of men is at last fulfilled. Envinyatar has come.'


	8. [Untitled] -- Nerwen

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> In honour of the Battle of the Pelennor, members of HA wrote and posted vignettes about the events of March 15, 3019 TA. The only catch was stories had to be from the POV or focus on the experience of one of the less common characters -- anyone except a member of the Fellowship, Denethor, Faramir, Theoden, Eomer, and Eowyn. All stories were written over the course of two days.

I take my sewing nearer to the window, in the little light the new day brings. I have not slept this night, nor have many within this doomed city. Here in my father’s house it is still peaceful. Yet the noises from the city invade even this sanctuary. I wish I could know what is happening I wish I could see what is going on. This window looks out over a street. I see people running to and fro, up to the citadel, down to the battle. I open the window to here the voices, longing for news. “The enemy have taken the first circle.” One of the messengers calls out to a friend in the door of the tavern.

“If they have broken the gates we are surely doomed.” As I hear these words, another sound comes, distant as if carried many miles on the wind, faint horns. I know not what, but my unspoken question is answered, “The horns of Rohan.” Rohan! They have come to help us. Is it possible that we might be saved?

The battle rages on, I can here the sounds of it, but cannot tell how it goes. I fear for the result, but I can no longer fear for my father. His death took away my protector, now I sit here and wait for the war to end. Wait for my doom, for I no longer believe we can win.

“Come away from the window, girl,” my aunt enters the room, followed by a maid carrying the tray containing our meagre breakfast. “It is not seemly for you to sit thus. Behave like a lady.”

I get down from the window sill and sit instead at the table. I do not try to argue with her for I know it would not please her.

“We should have left the city. Why did you not beg some of your friends to take you in. It is unsafe here.”

“If the city falls, all of Gondor will fall. There is no point to running away. It would simply prolong the waiting.”

“Hush, child. That is not so, Gondor will never fall.”

Maybe she is right, but how can it not?

After we have eaten, she makes me sit by the fire to continue my embroidery. I sit there, the threads tangle in my hands. I continue sewing, but it is only messing up what I have already done. She is busy mending something, and so does not notice. The bells suddenly ring out, signalling a new danger. I drop the embroidery and run to the window, to here the shouts, “The Corsairs are upon us! It is the last stroke of doom!” I turn to speak, but she has also heard, her face is pale. I step away from the window, towards her. We hug, standing together in silence. Neither of us can think of anything to say, any remaining hope has now disappeared, only the certainty of our fate remains. I do not now how long we stand there, before I hear more shouts, the tone is different. I return to the window. Looking out, there are more people in the street now, I want to shout out and ask them the news, but restrain myself. I overhear snatches of the conversations,

“The banner of Elendil.”

“Unlooked for allies.”

I look towards the tavern. The innkeeper, an old soldier crippled out of the army, has come to the door. One of the passers by turns to him, to tell the news, “The ships bear a banner with the White Tree, the Severn Stars and above them a Crown. The warriors poured out of the ships to our aid.”

“Great news indeed. That deserves a drink.” They go into the tavern, still talking but I can no longer here their words.

I turn back and tell my aunt the news. There are tears in her eyes, but her voice is steady, “The banner of Elendil. There must be strange folks who fight under it. I wonder …” but she breaks off, not finishing that sentence.

I sit by the window, she shakes her head at me, but does not order me to more. I wait for more news as the battle rages on, yet it seems to have changed, all the news that comes is more positive. The day goes on as I sit here, but as the sun sets, the battle end. The noises quieten. More and more people venture out onto the streets, but I may not. I sit here and listen, hearing the rumours that are passed from person to person. An old women passes and speaks to one of the men loitering in the door of the tavern, “Have you heard? The king has returned!”

A little later a messenger comes down from the citadel, spotting an acquaintance, he calls out, “Have you heard? The steward is dead and the Lord Faramir seems likely to follow him.”

Others exclaim at this new piece of news. Yet even this dark tiding fails to dim the joy that I now feel. I am just happy that the battle is over, and that we are now safe. Surely the war will soon be over; surely this victory will lead on to others. I turn from the window as the light fades. I am glad that this day is done and that I can now look forward to a time of peace, which must surely be coming.


	9. With Hope -- Melina

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> In honour of the Battle of the Pelennor, members of HA wrote and posted vignettes about the events of March 15, 3019 TA. The only catch was stories had to be from the POV or focus on the experience of one of the less common characters -- anyone except a member of the Fellowship, Denethor, Faramir, Theoden, Eomer, and Eowyn. All stories were written over the course of two days.

The smoke was thick and gray, and breathing was difficult. So was sight, and sight was critical, because without it he could not watch Aragorn, and Halbarad tried to keep his chieftain within his field of vision at all times. With the standard in one hand and his sword in the other, they fought beside each other for hours, attempting to stem the seemingly endless tide of Orcs, Southrons, Easterlings.

He grew weary; he knew Aragorn must be too, and resolved to watch him even more closely as he struggled to push the fatigue aside, to find his last reserves of energy. Finding a moment's respite against the wall of a ruined shed, Halbarad handed Aragorn a waterskin, and watched him drink gratefully.

Aragorn was about to say something when he suddenly shoved Halbarad aside, his sword parrying a blow from an Easterling who had crept behind him, around the side of the building. Halbarad was on his feet again seconds later, drawing his dagger and stabbing it into the man's back. But there was another, and this time it was Halbarad who pushed Aragorn to the ground, away from a second Easterling, who appeared from the shadows just behind him. The man was lithe and fierce, and Halbarad did not have time to lift his weapon before the Easterling's dagger slid between two of his ribs. Pain ripped through his body as the man twisted the dagger before pulling it out.

The standard Halbarad had carried all day slipped from his hand and fell to the ground. He sank to his knees, disbelieving, even as he saw and felt warm red blood dripping onto his fingers. Aragorn had the man in his grip before Halbarad fell, viciously cutting the Easterling's throat with his Elven dagger before shoving the dying body aside.

Halbarad was growing lightheaded, and he fell prone as Aragorn knelt beside him. "Halbarad," Aragorn whispered, pressing his own hands over Halbarad's, covering the wound. "Halbarad."

"Aragorn," he murmured. "Get out of here. There could be others." He could feel blood flowing freely from the wound in his chest.

"I am not leaving you." Aragorn pressed against the wound, trying to staunch the bleeding.

Aragorn was too stubborn to give up, but he was stubborn himself when it came to Aragorn's safety. He whispered, "Please, go. It is too late for me."

"It is not!" Aragorn almost shouted this, but quickly lowered his voice. "You are not going to die."

He was wrong, Halbarad thought, but Aragorn must not die here, hoping against hope that he might be saved. "You are not a chieftain anymore, you are a king!" he said, with force that surprised himself. "You cannot tarry here to care for one fallen man."

"Indeed, but I can," he said, his tone permitting no further argument.

Yet Halbarad could see in Aragorn's eyes that he knew the truth now and was beginning to accept it, for he ceased the pressure on the wound, and he lifted sad eyes to Halbarad's face. Bloodstained fingers touched him gently on the cheek. "You saved my life, my friend."

He tried to smile. "We have saved each others' lives many times," he said. The blood was not pouring from his chest quite so quickly now, but he was growing cold, the edges of his vision blurring. For a moment, sadness threatened to break his spirit, and he grieved for all that he would not live to see. The Enemy destroyed, Aragorn taking his rightful place as king, his own homeland in the North safe and fair, his people restored to dignity and honor.

"Aragorn, you must live," he said, his voice a whisper. "All that we have fought for must come to pass."

Aragorn took his hand, and Halbarad felt the pressure, though his own fingers could not return it. "If it is within me to accomplish, I swear I will."

His strength was ebbing now with each moment, but Halbarad was determined to speak these words. "It is within you, Aragorn. It always has been. You must believe." His eyes had gone black now, and he could no longer see his friend, but he still felt the hands holding his own. "Tell me you believe," he whispered. Tell me, he thought, and I will die with hope.

The reply was a whisper, but he heard it. "I believe."

Halbarad felt his friend's hands on his face, his forehead, and he wished he could say farewell, but the words would not form on his lips. He heard, "Rest now, Halbarad. May the Valar bring you peace."

Halbarad felt the kiss upon his forehead, then he slipped away, hope safe in his heart.


	10. No Living Man -- Elana

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> In honour of the Battle of the Pelennor, members of HA wrote and posted vignettes about the events of March 15, 3019 TA. The only catch was stories had to be from the POV or focus on the experience of one of the less common characters -- anyone except a member of the Fellowship, Denethor, Faramir, Theoden, Eomer, and Eowyn. All stories were written over the course of two days.

The Witch King of Angmar hefted his mace, its spiked head describing lazy circles, as he relished the prospect of the puny figure before him. Secure in his invulnerability, he laughed. "Fool! No living man may hinder me!"

The warrior removed his helm, and golden hair spilled out, framing a feminine face. "No living man am I," she declared. "You look upon a woman."

Behind him a high voice piped up. "And I'm certainly not a man either! I'm a Hobbit."

The lord of the Nazgul paused. Hmm, the prophecy had specified "man," hadn't it?

From across the field a clear voice rang out. "Lady Eowyn! Are you in need of assistance?"

The golden haired woman smiled at the tall, graceful warrior who hurried up. "Well, Legolas, my foe here feels he is in no danger, as he believes he cannot be harmed by any living man."

"Well, in that case, perhaps he will not be so confident to face, me, since I am no man either, but an Elf."

Beside him, a short, stocky figure brandished an axe. "Nor am I a man. Lady Eowyn, I am at your service." He turned to the Witch King. "Do you fear to face the wrath of a Dwarf?"

Faltering before their steady gazes, the Witch King stepped back. Somehow he had never considered how many among his enemies fell outside the description "man." Then he rallied his courage. Was he not great among the forces of Mordor? His powers were still far greater than this pitiful assembly could match.

A shadowy grey form drifted up to join the group arrayed against him. The Elf glanced at it. "Ah, Gimli, it seems one of our allies from the battle against the Corsairs has not yet wearied of fighting, and has joined us."

The Dwarf chuckled grimly. "Aye, one of the Dead."

The Witch King began to sweat. No "living" man…

A pair of tall, dark haired warriors galloped up and swung down off their horses. "Well me, Elladan, Elrohir," said the Dwarf.

The Witch King felt confident again. "They are men!"

The Elf shook his head. "No, they are sons of Elrond Halfelven. Peredhel."

A shimmering silver horse arrived, bearing a rider clad in glowing white carrying a staff. "I have unfinished business with you, servant of Sauron."

"Surely you are a man?" The Witch King was beginning to panic.

"No, actually, though I appear so. Like your dark master, I am one of the Maiar."

Gandalf's horse tossed his head and his hoof pawed the ground suggestively. "And of course Shadowfax here is a lord of horses, one of the Mearas."

The Witch King looked about him wildly. Where were the other Nazgul? He needed reinforcements here! But none of his allies were to be seen. Instead, his eyes met a towering figure striding stiffly across the battlefield.

Gandalf, Legolas and Gimli waved in recognition. "Greetings, Treebeard," called Gandalf. "You are just who we needed. It seems the Lord of the Nazgul fears only those who are not living men."

The creature's slow, rumbling voice spoke. "Then I am glad to join you. I expect he has never before faced an Ent."

A shadow seemed to pass over the Witch King, and he found himself suddenly hemmed in from behind by a dark forest.

"And I have brought with me from Fangorn some of the wild, angry trees of the forest," the Ent continued. "Huorns."

Fear filled the Witch King. Beneath his dark robes he trembled. "But the prophecy," he whispered. "No living man may harm me…." Curse the seer who spoke those words! Had this been the vision he saw?

Around him his enemies chuckled with grim pleasure. The wizard nodded toward the woman. "Lady Eowyn, the foe is yours, if you wish."

She gripped her sword tighter and grinned wickedly. "Oh, I welcome all your aid."

"Then lead us in the attack."

"Gladly!" She charged forward with a wild cry.

As he vainly fended off the raining blows of the whole company, the Witch King searched the sky for any sight of his brethren on their winged steeds. There, were those their shapes, stooping down out of the sky toward the melee with claws outstretched?

Around him the cry went up. "The Eagles! The Eagles are coming!"

The Lord of the Nazgul despaired, and fell beneath the massed assault.


End file.
